


Pharmakon

by Filigranka



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Bittersweet, Dialogue Heavy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-06 04:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11028963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: ‘And do you happen to know the witcher’s name?’‘Well, of course.’ Anton almost laughed. ‘Who wouldn't know it? It’s the famous White Wolf! Hey, miss, where’re you goin’?Ciri's life is always full of surprises.





	Pharmakon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Irusu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irusu/gifts).



> Many, many thanks to Isis for being my beta!

The basilisk Ciri was tracking seemed strange. Old, ill or wounded, perhaps. It was definitely a big one, considering the size of the nest and the trails it had left on its usual road to the stream, not to mention the tales about “the enormous dragon” she'd been told.—But it hadn’t left its cave in the three days that Ciri had been observing it. For all she knew, it might be already dead, and Ciri was sharpening her swords for a glorious battle with rotting corpse.

On the other hand, years on the witcher’s path had managed to teach Ciri—eventually—that charging into danger sans preparations wasn’t the best idea. For all her talents, she wasn’t a witcher. She had been trained, sure, but she hadn’t undergone the mutations. She didn't posess a witcher's superhuman senses, or the constitution needed to survive the witcher’s elixirs. She fancied herself a witcher, true, for the tradition and the love of Kaer Morhen—but even one drop of basilisk venom would kill her in a few seconds, just like any ordinary human. And the inside of the cave was pitch black. Not the best place for a fight. Dying monsters could still kill you—and they had that unpredictable strength and resourcefulness born from desperation.

Still, three days was a lot of time to waste. Ciri sighed and decided to break the stalemate. She took a smoke bomb, walked out from the bushes—carefully observing her surroundings, waiting for any sign of upcoming attack—and threw the bomb deeply into the cave. If the beast were still alive, that should force it to make a move.

Indeed, after a few moments angry howling came out of the cave. Ciri took a defensive stance: she supposed the basilisk would charge with all its strength, trying to use its size as an advantage.

It did. Ciri dodged the attack, simultaneously pushing the sword into the basilisk’s side. She thought she would just scratch its scales—but, to her surprise, the blade went into something soft and yielding, and the beast howled in pain. It must have been injured there, before, and she had just re-opened the wound. She pushed deeper, instinctively, pushing the sword to right, broadening the supposed wound—and then had to teleport herself to avoid the basilisk’s jaws aiming for her arm.

She landed a few steps away, on the back of the monster. It clearly had been grievously wounded. Ciri’s blade went back into the older wound, which, if its smell was any clue, hadn’t been healing rightly. Or even at all. Despite its wrath, the basilisk looked tired, its red scales lacking any shine and its eyes barely lucid. It would be a mercy kill, really.

Ciri rolled down, placing herself under the beast, aiming at its unprotected belly. Risky move, but she doubted that a sick basilisk could be faster than her—and so, when the monster jumped and tried to take off, in hope of attacking from the air, Ciri got the opening she wanted. She lifted the blade over her head, striking straight into the monster’s vulnerable neck.

The basilisk stopped in mid-move, in mid-air. And then fell. Ciri barely managed to roll herself out of its way.

She took a few deep breaths, sighed, then shakily got to her feet. Mercy killing aside, people in Nievka would need proof—a trophy—to pay her that nice reward the public announcement had promised.

 

 

The village of Nievka—almost a town, really—looked pretty and well-organised. Too well-organised for Ciri’s taste. The Northerners preferred their houses reasonably tidy, but chaotic in fashion. If, by some chance, the two brothers living under one roof got into an argument, the house might end up being painted bright blue on one side, and joyful pink on another. Rules about windows’ shape, pre-planned colour schemes, or any other attempts to force things into some kind of aesthetic harmony were treated like attacks on citizens' basic freedom, sending countless Northern architects to their early graves.

Had been treated, Ciri corrected herself grimly, as she looked at the fresh, uncannily harmonic paint on buildings’ walls, windows’ shutters and fences. And then Nilfgaard came with its “order” and its “progress”. The revenge of the architects, she added, trying to cheer herself up.

In vain. Guilt crept into her soul, whispering one accusation after another. She was a queen of Cintra, a Northern queen. She should be with her people. She should command the resistance or, at the very least, accept Emhyr’s offer. If she had been Nilfgaard’s empress, she could have stopped this madness, halted the armies, ended the war her father had started for the sake of that damn prophecy.

 _You mean, for your sake?_ hissed some soft, almost condescending voice in her mind. She gritted her teeth.

That was all nonsense. Even as empress she would be influenced by others—the Guild, the courtiers, the vassals. Nilfgaard would never let her do as she pleased. The only thing she could accomplish would be becoming the object of the hate of the Northerners herself.

Saving the North by herself was but a foolish dream, born from regret and longing. It was too late now. Besides, the fate—the death—was after her, upon her. Aen Elle. Unicorns. Emhyr. Someone—something—always would be on her tail. Everything she held for too long withered and died. She could avoid it as a witcher, but becoming the empress, holding all that responsibility, jeopardising millions of lives... It had simply never been an option. Well, not the sane option, at least.

And yet she couldn’t help her fists clenching in frustration upon seeing the queue of Nilfgaardian soldiers standing at the door of the inn. Nievka didn't have its own garrison—lucky for the inhabitants, probably—so it wasn’t an expected sight. The soldiers must have been sent for some mission, collecting taxes in that still unruly land probably, and now waited for a meal or a drink, something to celebrate their success or wash away their failure.

Ciri went straight into them, faux-polite smile dancing on her lips. She pushed between them, throwing high-pitched “oh, sorry, 'scuse me, sorry, excuse me!” on left and right, disrupting and eventually completely ruining the queue. Of course, the soldiers would line themselves up again in no time—but the look of sheer confusion on their faces was definitely worth it.

‘Oh, this isn't the representative’s house!’ she exclaimed at the inn’s doorstep, and immediately turned on her heel. ‘I’ll be on my way, then. Bye!”

 

 

Anton, the village representative—quite young for such a function; he still had brown hair, grizzled only on his temples, and there was still some energy in his green eyes—greeted her with a smile.

‘I observed the little scene you made, young lady. Well played. I can’t stand them, acting like a bunch of sheep—a line here, a queue there, order and discipline, discipline and order...’ He caught himself before any really incriminating words left his mouth, and ended with a forced laugh. ‘I suppose we all have to get used to it. Like they say, Nilfgaardians are elven people. Although I personally find our non-humans much more tolerable. Including elves.’

‘How open-minded of you,’ said Ciri, not even trying to hide the irony in her voice. But the man didn’t notice. Or pretended he hadn’t.

‘It's true! When people here got all crazy, y’know, during the previous war, and wanted to create a non-human ghetto—a ghetto in our small Nievka! What nonsense, we still haven’t got space for this rubbish and Nievka wasn’t exactly bigger then... Besides, our neighbours had nothing to do with the war. No Squirrels here. So, it was a bizarre idea, but the war was in full swing, merchants and soldiers telling stories about Squirrels' arrows and tortures, every day a new one... People are just people, like my grandfather, may he rest in peace, used to say.’ He shrugged. ‘Still, a stupid idea. So we: me, my father, Sanna—she’s our quack—and few others convinced the rest to drop it. Come to think of it, that’s probably why Nilfgaard made me the village representative. Since my father is dead, I’d vote for the quack myself, but she’s a lower priestesses of Melitele and our local deities... Nilfgaardians don’t like that.' Venom slipped into his voice. 'It’s not _progressive_ enough.’

He probably hadn’t talked so openly with anybody in a long time. Couldn’t, even. Ciri supposed many people in Nievka would gladly inform Nilfgaardian authorities about his opinions. Out of jealousy, or because of some old grudge. Or just plain small community politics. Village representative could be a lucrative position.

But she wasn’t from here. And she had judged him badly, she thought, feeling vaguely ashamed. Let him talk. At least he would feel better. She couldn’t do anything more.

‘It wasn’t easy, I suppose? Convincing others? I mean, about the ghetto.’

He shrugged again.

‘It wasn’t so hard, either. You just need to silence the loudest few—and we’re only a village. No _idealists_ here.’ He almost spat the word. ‘We just paid them. None of us were exactly rich then, so non-humans paid too. And that was the whole deal. With real Squirrels things would be a lot worse... But I shouldn’t say that about the allies of the our emperor.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re a warrior?’ he guessed, glancing at her swords.

Or at her scars. But she didn’t want to pursue that thought.

‘I’m a witcher.’

‘Oh. I didn’t know they let—Never mind. You seek the bounty, then? ’

‘I already killed the beast. It was a basilisk. an old, big one,’ she added with an emphasis. She wanted that reward—in full. ‘Basilisks can be as dangerous as...’

‘I know, I know. That it's a basilisk and not a dragon, I mean. Changing the announcement seemed like a useless hassle.’ He waved his hand. ‘Forgive me for asking, but was the basilisk alive when you... encountered it?’ He obviously struggled with his words, cautiously manoeuvring around the rudeness of the question. ‘I don’t mean no offence, miss witcher, just—’

‘You can call me Zireael. And yes, the basilisk was very much alive and kicking. Albeit wounded. But a wounded animal is twice as dangerous,’ she added. ‘Why do you ask?‘

‘Another witcher took on the contract. He managed to hurt it and chased it off our pastures, but was wounded and poisoned in the process. It wouldn’t be so bad, because he has that immunity of theirs—yours—but of course he, being a proud and strong witcher, tried to hide his wounds from us. Didn’t show them even to the quack! And so the wounds got much worse. Such foolishness! From a grown man!’

Ciri’s stomach felt queasy. This region was the usual hunting ground of the Wolf’s School—and she couldn’t help but start to imagine one of them on his deathbed, Eskel, Lambert or even—

Her fear must have shown on her face, because Anton immediately started reassuring her. The wounds weren’t that bad and the quack was tending them now, and the witcher would definitely survive, if with a little bruised pride, and really, there was nothing for her to worry about, and she could go and check, if she wanted to, and—

‘And do you happen to know the witcher’s name?’

‘Well, of course.’ Anton almost laughed. ‘Who wouldn't know it? It’s the famous White Wolf! Hey, miss, where’re you goin’? You need to co-sign the bill! Nilfgaardian bureaucrats will kill me...’

 

 

Geralt’s reaction upon seeing Ciri was predictable—at least, she told herself it was, so as to not get shamefully sentimental—he shouted her name, immediately tried to get out of the bed, failed miserably, and then pretended it’s nothing, really nothing, don’t worry, Ciri, and by the way, what are you doing here?

‘I’m here to finish the job you butchered.’ She caught herself in the last moment before jokingly poking him in the side with her elbow. ‘Which I have already finished it _, by the way_.’

‘You went after the basilisk? Ciri, its venom—’

That was predictable, too.

‘—kills humans in under ten seconds, I know. I took the usual protective potions—I know you don’t believe in them, but they works for normal humans—and have antidotes with me. I’m quite an experienced witcher, now. Monsters generally tend to be rather dangerous, but that’s my job, killing monsters. You taught me so yourself.’

He went silent for a moment. He didn’t look as bad as she had feared—a little pale, definitely thinner than usual, and with tangled, unwashed hair, but far from a man on his deathbed.

‘You’re right. I guess I just hoped... I didn’t think I'd meet you in the middle of such a contract. But I’m proud of you. Very proud. It’s just my hurt ego. I didn’t realise I’m that old already. Maybe I should go into retirement and leave the world to the younger generation.’

‘You mean me? I didn’t recall any other younger generation out there. Even with teleportation, I’m not sure I’ll manage protecting the whole North by myself.’

‘Lambert, too. He’s a younger generation eternally, I’m sure.’

She laughed. Geralt, being mutated back and forth and therefore above such a human trifles, was just smirking.

‘ He will be eternally reminding you that you almost got killed by an ordinary basilisk.’

‘And you had to take care of my mistakes. He will be delighted. I guess I can’t hope you will let yourself be bribed and won’t tell him a word?’

She shook her head, still laughing lightly.

‘Rightly so. He will be proud of you, too. He already is. We are all very proud of you, Ciri. Always have been, always will be. Even if you stop going after the most dangerous creatures on this world. Or just jump somewhere else.’

 _Somewhere safer, somewhere easier_ , his eyes said. She ignored them and sighed instead.

‘I wish Vesemir could see it—hear about it—too.’

‘Maybe he is. You never know. This world is full of ghosts. Some of them even come back from the dead.’

‘You’re always talking about yourself. Worse than Dandelion, you are.’

‘Well, nowadays, when all ballads are about you, and you fail to kill “an ordinary basilisk”... One has to heal one’s ego however one can. But I was talking about Vesemir.’

‘You think he’s haunting Kaer Morhen? Walking the courtyard, frightening harpies, trolls and travellers?’

‘Travellers he tries to force to finally repair the walls and the gate, I assume. And the trolls may not notice he’s dead.’

‘Well, he might persuade them to rebuild Kaer Morhen, then. They’re better workers than random travellers. And they would be happy to live there.’

‘I’m not sure if Vesemir is—would be—happy if the trolls annexed Kaer Morhen.’

‘Well, at least it wouldn’t stay empty and slowly going to ruin. Trolls care about their caves. And Vesemir would have somebody to teach and preach to.’ Ciri shrugged, trying to hide the sudden surge of melancholy. She escaped Geralt’s observant eyes, by looking around the room. It was small, but tidy and full of sunshine. Yellowish, worn wood and small folklore tapestries with moral and religious proverbs on them. Kilims and tapestries in Cintra were much richer and more sophisticated, but those here still felt a little like home and Ciri smiled a little.

‘You spend the winters in Toussaint now, right? Lambert and Eskel empty your cellars every year, don’t they?’

‘They surely try. Heroically try, even. But, as you may remember, my estate has really large cellars. You’re always welcome to visit and try to empty them, too, you know.’

‘I’ll, definitely. Some time.’ She nodded. ‘Not for a long while yet, though. I'm sure that Emhyr observes you closely. I doubt he believed you.’

‘He didn’t, I suppose. But he understood you ultimately refused him. And he knows he can’t force you. You would just go... somewhere else. If he is watching, it’s just for his—for easing his feelings.’

Ciri almost kicked the stool with medications and bandages, standing near Geralt’s bed, but stop herself at gritting the teeth. There was no reason to disturb Geralt and Sanna. Emhyr wasn’t the reason for anything. For Ciri, he was nothing, nothing, nothing.

Geralt, of course, noticed.

‘I’m not saying you have any obligations towards him. He chose his path and has to live with the consequences. You chose yours—and honestly, I prefer yours. His feelings are his and you can’t change them. Live how you want to and pay no mind to him.’

‘I don’t.’ She blinked, but her voice was steady, rising even. ‘You raised me, right? You and the other witchers are my family. And Yennefer, and Triss. And Nenneke. And so many others—mostly dead, of course.’ She forced a laugh. ‘ _Bloede carme_. I think... Duny is dead, too. To the world. To me. I think... whoever—whatever it was, a part of him, a mask, a role... it died on that ship. My parents died then, and my grandma died in Cintra’s massacre. And I loved her, you know. My grandma. She was stern, all right, but just and brave, and she knew how to love, and she cared about her people... She came to like him, eventually. And he _killed her_.’ Hatred coloured her voice. She hadn't known she still felt it so strongly. ‘Destroyed my home. Massacred the whole city. All because of me.’

Geralt rose from the sheet, though he hissed in pain, mid-move, and had to complete the gesture slowly and more carefully.

‘Not because of you. It was his own obsession, his vision of himself as the saviour of the world. His imperial ego. It had nothing to with you. The only time he could call himself a father was when he let you go. The rest of it—it was just imperial politics in a metaphysical costume.’

‘Just like the Aen Elle.’

‘Ha. There’s plenty of egocentric, megalomaniac bastards on every world, I guess. Speaking of which—how’s Avallac’h doing?’

‘Have no idea. Scheming for power, I presume. He left for Tir ná Lia. He hasn't contacted me since.’

Geralt looked at her face, tentatively. Searching for something, she thought. He coughed. Once. Twice. Looked away. Coughed again. She sighed:

‘Spit it out.’

‘And how does that... make you... feel?’

‘Doesn’t make me feel anything at all.’ She shrugged, letting some loose strands of her hair fall to her face. ‘He’s Aen Saevherne. He has a lot of time. I doubt he remembers that I, like all us, filthy Dh’oine, won’t live hundreds of years. He will try to visit me in a century or so and then be oh so surprised and disappointed I’m dead.'

‘He won’t. I mean—he remembers. If he cares about you even half as much as he seemed to, he remembers. It’s impossible to forget, trust me.’ Geralt spoke slowly, cautiously, his face stern and emotionless, lacking even his usual sardonic twist of the lips, and Ciri immediately felt a pang of both guilt and affection.

Of course. Geralt, like all witchers, like all sorcerers—unlike Ciri—would live for several human lifespans. She didn’t mean to remind him of that, she just, well, sort of forgot. She had faced death too many times to think in terms of living the average span of your race and then dying in your own bed. Honestly, she had stopped thinking about death at all, a long time ago. It was almost as though by protecting friends and family from being murdered, assassinated, slaughtered, shredded to pieces by beasts or just killed in battle would mean stopping death altogether.

Which would seem rather silly if one was to say it aloud.

‘I don’t mind,’ Ciri said instead. ‘It’s just the way he is.’

Geralt looked like he wanted to add a sentence or two—“You didn’t seem so calm in that laboratory of his,” or something along those lines—but apparently decided against it, and just sank back into the pillows.

‘I guess one couldn’t just outrun death by changing worlds forever,’ he said after a moment. ‘Or is it possible? Time goes differently on different worlds, that’s how the Wild Hunt and you, and others can travel through it, right?’

‘Sort of. But my own time, the timeline of my body... it’s a different matter. The body gets older in its own time and you cannot stop it. Avallac’h tried to explain it to me once, but you know how he is with explaining things. Loads of elven metaphysics and even more of ambiguity.’

‘Let me guess—the day of our death is writ in fate and therefore cannot be changed?’

‘In more pretentious terms.’ Ciri smirked. ‘Still, I can go through time and space. I can jump to the future of this world and see you and whatever sorceresses you’ll decide to spend the night with at this time—in a century or so. That is, if it really is you, not just some other Geralt from some other similar universe. You’d never believe how many similar worlds exist. Gods should be more imaginative.’

‘Re-e-ally?’ said Geralt. ‘What I saw with Avallac’h seemed rather creative. Variable. But I guess everything gets boring after some time. I’d never imagined I’d see you so blasé, Your Highness.’

‘Call me that again and I’ll strangle you with your own pillow.’

Geralt fell into silence. He closed his eyes, and for a moment Ciri thought him asleep. But then he asked suddenly:

‘So, there are other worlds with other Geralts out there?’

‘Maybe. Probably. Depends on the theory.’ Ciri knitted her brows. ‘Avallac’h said that every decision we make instantly creates a world where we made a different decision. Not creates, really, more like discovers. He said that every choice was made in some world, and that’s why interpreting prophecies is such a hard job. Or something like that.‘

‘Sounds like the bullshit every fortune-teller on every streetcorner would tell you.'

She sighed. ‘That’s because you are not the one who has to experience it.’

He murmured something. Placation, apology, Ciri couldn't tell, and she didn’t push—she couldn’t blame him for being wary of Avallac’h. Honestly, she still was, herself. And Geralt had even more reasons to dislike him, even if jealousy was among them, too.

‘We should decide upon a code, then.’

‘What?’ Ciri looked at him, startled.

‘A code. So you can be sure that I’m your Geralt, not some otherworldly impostor.’

At first, she thought he was joking. Yet he seemed rather serious, albeit in his usual sardonic manner. Distancing himself from his own words before even letting them leave his mouth. _He might be more similar to Avallac’h than he thinks_.

‘Chicken soup,’ Ciri said suddenly. Geralt’s eyebrows rose. ‘For a code. Chicken soup. As a memory of the day I had to feed you the most powerful, ever-healing potion of the world. And I’ll feed it to you now. No escaping Papa Vesemir’s best recipe!’ she added cheerfully.

Geralt, on the other hand, looked rather resigned.

‘It’s a revenge for all the times when you were ill and we made you eat it, isn’t it?’

‘You did say it’s for my own good. It’s for your own good, too.’ Ciri beamed.

‘You know, I’m feeling quite well—‘

‘Oh, so it’s working already? I must have made the portion twice the usual size for it to work backwards in time!’

Geralt groaned. 'All right, I'll eat your chicken soup. But if you appear to me and I'm not sure it's you, you'll have to give it as a code word as well. So I know you're my Ciri, and not some other world's Ciri. Why, on another world, that Ciri might be the Empress!'

'As long as she's a witcher in this one,' she said, as she went to find the ingredients.

 

 

‘It’s not so bad,’ admitted Geralt. ‘I daresay it’s even very tasty.’

‘That’s good, because you will eat it till the end of the week.’ She laughed. ‘Well, I learnt a thing or two—or thousand—travelling through all these worlds. About spices, herbs, different cuisines… So many things. You would never believe what is eaten in some of the worlds. Stones, minerals, gold, diamonds, clouds… Humans, too.’

‘Let me guess: humans with onions are very good, yes? Like tomato?’

She shivered a little.

Geralt looked away quickly. ‘I didn’t ask.’

 

 

The night was nice, she decided. Warm, but not too hot. the moon was shining behind the quickly-moving clouds.

‘Ciri…’

‘I know.’ She turned her face away. ‘I know, Geralt. It wasn’t a vision, just a regular nightmare, I think.’ _I hope_. ‘I’m sorry I woke you up.’

He kneeled beside her on the wet grass. She almost chided him, but then again, his illness wasn’t exactly a common cold that could be made worse by a chill. And he was a lot better already.

‘I couldn't care less about the visions. I’m worried about you. You were screaming in your sleep, again. Dream or vision, doesn’t matter as long as it hurts you.’

She forced herself to smile and let her head fall to his shoulder.

‘But you cannot slay fate.’

‘Nor you can slay a dream. Unless it’s a revenant which is causing it.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t believe in fate, Ciri.’

A tired laugh escaped her throat. ‘But all of my prophecies came to pass. People died the way I envisioned.’ Ciri’s throat suddenly felt dry and narrow. She coughed. ‘Coën. You. The whole—‘

Geralt’s irritated huff interrupted her. ‘It wasn’t your fault. Visions, even the truest ones, aren’t causing anything.’

‘Ain’t stopping anything, either.’

‘Yeah. And that means you don’t bear the problems of the whole world on your shoulders. You’re not responsible for it. You help people as much as you can and try to do no harm. It’s enough. You defeated the White Frost, whatever it was. Stopped Avallac’h's world from falling. It’s more than enough. You don’t have to try to save, well, everything else. We will manage to fuck it all up and then rebuild anew on our own, I assure you.’

‘Geralt—‘

‘What this world really needs, now and forever, is happiness,’ he stated firmly. ‘I’m a witcher. I cannot feel emotions. But you—you have the whole range of emotions at your disposal. Just try to live happily and let fate, if it’s really so omnipotent, care about the rest.’

‘You took that from Dandelion’s ballads.’

‘Perhaps. You're the one who has always been his fan, though.’

She didn’t answer, letting herself be taken by the serenity of the moment—Geralt’s proximity, his beard lightly scratching the top of her head, his hand on her waist holding her close. Her eyelids were getting heavier with every minute.

‘I am quite happy now,’ she murmured. ‘But—even if it wasn’t a sign, even if it can’t change anything—I think I’m leaving Nievka tomorrow. There’s no such thing as an overcautious witcher.’

She half-expected he would argue with her, but he just nodded. ‘I’m coming with you, then. I ate almost all of the chicken soup, after all. Surely I'm cured.’

Clever move, she thought sleepily. She couldn’t argue with him when he had given up his own opportunity to object. Besides, he really didn’t look so bad—and she wouldn’t mind some company. But not to bargain a little seemed almost unsporting.

‘Just to the first major crossing. Witchers do their job alone, after all.’

Geralt’s chest rose and fell in a heavy, exasperated sigh—but he nodded his head. His beard scratched Ciri’s temples, brow and even her nose. She might have laughed, if she hadn’t been so sleepy.

‘Just to the first major crossing,’ he agreed.

 

 

Geralt checked the feeder—still half-full, but he decided to add a little meat to it anyway. He didn’t want to have to return here in a day or two; there were other parts of the forest waiting for him.

Time’s changing, he thought to himself for the thousand time. Time’s changing itself, and it's changing us. Vesemir would laugh his arse off looking at me now.

Now, with elves gone and most of the monsters almost extinct, thanks to Nilfgaardian policies, preserving bio-diversity was the main objective of more people than only druids and Melitele’s priestesses. People had become sentimental, and people's sentiments are a matter of importance to the state. Preserves and national parks had been created—first in Toussaint, then in the rest of the Empire.

And Geralt, being Toussaint's most honoured noble and witcher—an almost extinct profession—had got a job as a forester. A nice, well-paid job in the open air, he had told Lambert when the other witcher almost fell to the floor from laughing. A nice job. Less killing and fewer moral dilemmas, at the very least.

It hadn’t stopped Lambert from eventually rolling under the table, of course. ‘Yeah. Perfect for you. You have always preferred helping monsters instead of killing them.’ Even on the ground, he laughed. ‘I’m sure that feeding poor wyverns in the winter was your secret dream even during our training.’

And then Lambert had to change his own profession, thought Geralt with a hint of satisfaction, loading the last piece of meat onto the box. And he became—

‘Chicken soup!’ A strikingly familiar voice yelled from behind him. A voice he would recognise everywhere, any time…

‘Ciri!’ And yes, it was her, standing in the middle of the snow-covered range, dressed in a completely inappropriate manner—long leather boots without fur, light blue summer dress, hundreds of little jewellery pieces everywhere—and smiling at him roguishly.

‘I said I would come to meet you.’ Upon seeing his surprise, her smile widened. ‘Don’t tell me you’re amnesiac again. Chicken soup is the code-word, remember?’

‘Yeah. From the time I failed— _you_ killed a basilisk.’ He managed to said, despite his clenched throat. ‘I remember.’

She must have seen the surprising look he gave her clothes, because she explained: ‘Well, I came from a very hot, fancy place. I didn’t plan to land here in the middle of the winter, but, eh, I sometimes still make mistakes in time-jumps… Either way, you still have this manor of yours, I hope? I could use some good spiced wine—and I have so many things to tell you!’

He nodded. He didn’t trust his words yet—but after a few deep breaths, making puffs of mist into the air, he managed to choke out: ‘Well, the second to the manor loses, then. And no teleporting, Ciri!’

He began to run, followed by the snowflakes, beginning to slowly fall from the sky, and by the sounds of her steps, quickly approaching—and by her laughter.


End file.
